Five Drunken Confessions of Santana Lopez


If she were to get honest with herself, Santana would have to admit that she had never really been attracted to Puck at all.

Of course, she had WANTED him. Who didn't want the guy who was known as one of the few semi-decent football players and hottest pieces of action in the school? Who didn't want a guy whose biceps were almost as big around as her thighs? To get Noah Puckerman into her would be to prove that she could attract one of the most panted-after guys in the school, and that would make it clear to everyone else that Santana Lopez was hot too. After all, a guy like Puck, who could have his pick of any girl in the school…if he wanted Santana, that had to mean that she was one of the best.

There was no way, of course, to prove that if you didn't have a guy spelling it out to the world. No one could ever think of Santana as the sexy, untouchable badass that she so badly wanted them to if she was ever single, or at least if she wasn't getting it on with someone on a regular basis. More accurately, someone with a decent ability to grow facial hair and a decent-sized penis.

The penis factor, well, that was a whole other story that she didn't often even want to let herself think about, let alone talk about with anyone else. If it ever cropped up into her mind, Santana went out of her way to go on the defensive against it, shoving her thoughts aside and determinedly forcing new ones in.

So she wasn't really all that ATTRACTED to Puck. So maybe the feel of his stubbly chin, when he got lazy about shaving, skeeved her out when she kissed him, making her mentally compare him to a very blunt cactus. Maybe she didn't like how his hands were rough against her skin, moving with too much pressure and speed, completely missing her most pleasurable places and mashing down too hard and clumsily against others. Maybe she didn't like the ridiculous way his mouth hung open and his nostrils flared when he came, the weird grunting noises he made when she touched him, or the way he generally smelled faintly of stale sweat and cloying deodorant. Maybe it was the way his tongue reminded her of those creepy eels on The Little Mermaid, Brittany's favorite Disney movie, all, skinny, fast, and darting.

Brittany….how was it that every time she started out thinking about Puck, or any other guy she fixed her sights and goals on, her thoughts always seemed to somehow shift back to Brittany?

Sometimes she thought that maybe it wasn't really anything in particular about Puck at all, or even the package of all the details all together. Sometimes, before she could shove it back and bury it again where it belonged, Santana thought that maybe what the real problem was, was that Puck wasn't Brittany. That none of them were.

But that possibility wasn't one that occurred to her often, and for as long as she could shove it down, force herself to focus on something else, she could almost forget it had ever come to mind. The easiest way to push it down deep into the back of her thoughts was to immediately touch the closest guy, to run her fingers up his arm and press her recently augmented breasts into his chest, to drop her voice low and breathe into his ear while stroking her other hand down low over his torso, then lower still. Feeling him suck in his breath and draw her harder against him, his neck bending forward to suck her lower lip into his mouth, was sometimes just distracting enough for Santana to almost believe that her physical reaction to him was more intense than it actually was, that she felt every bit as attracted to him as he was towards her.

And if she couldn't quite manage, well, there was always alcohol as an option to help her out.

Drinking always gave Santana the chemical push she needed to fully believe whatever it was she was telling herself, to take her hoped for reality and make herself believe it in full. With shots of tequila, several beers, or even a few fuzzy navels in her system, everyone and everything, including whichever person was shoving his hand under her shirt or down her pants, seemed considerably more interesting and exciting. Maybe it was because her eyes were too blurred to see straight, maybe the warm, buzzing sensation it sent through her skin made everything more pleasant to the touch, but whatever it was, Santana would take it, even actively seek it out, if it would make everything easier.

The downside to alcohol was that as much as it helped her to enjoy herself more thoroughly in the first forty-five minutes or so, as well as whatever guy she happened to be with, the next hour or two afterward generally took a nosedive. As soon as the initial adrenaline tapered off, Santana's enthusiasm towards having as much sex in as many ways as possible, as immediately as possible, abruptly stopped, and a sharp sense of melancholy settled in instead. While sober, she would deny it as fiercely as she could manage, with sharp retorts and even her fists, if she had to, but she knew as well as anyone that every time she drank, she would inevitably end up in tears.

More times than she could recall she had ended up screaming into guys' faces and beating her fists against their chests while sobbing incoherently, running away from a party with a half-zipped skirt, tears streaming down her face, or hunched over a toilet as she dry-heaved, her hair clinging to the dampness of her cheeks as she wailed, with either Quinn or Brittany gingerly patting her back. It had become something of a gamble to Santana to try to time exactly how long she had between the initial rush of drinking and the breakdown that would follow, to see if she could extract herself from being in an embarrassing situation before it finally hit. Problem was, once she started drinking, her logic and math skills tended to fall by the wayside, so more often than not, her plan to make a cool exit while still totally in control of the guy, if not herself, didn't exactly work out as planned.

So far with Puck, though, it hadn't been a problem. Generally whenever she was drinking, which was most of the time when she was alone with him, he was drinking too, so if she lost it in front of him, chances were good he would have forgotten it by morning. Still, Santana was stacking the odds in a badly teetering tower and she knew it. The only person with less of a guard against their mouths were Rachel Hobbit Berry and Finn Whiteboy-Dancer Hudson, but Puck was a close third. If she ever said something too incriminating while in the midst of an alcohol-induced breakdown, he would never let her live it down.

Still, that never stopped her from picking up the bottle, or the shotglass, or even the friggin' funnel, because when it came to Santana Lopez, pride won out over fear almost every time.

"That's right, baby, just like that…" Noah Puckerman grunted as his teeth nipped at the base of Santana's throat, most of the weight of his body pressing against hers so that her spine dug hard against one of the springs of his narrow twin bed. At least, Santana thought it was his bed; the fact that the slightly blurred walls appeared to be some shade of purple made her think that either Noah had some sick, secret liking for either Prince or Barney that she had previously been unaware of, or that it was in fact his sister's bed they were using at the moment.

Either way, she couldn't bring herself to care. She had had four shots of tequila, as well as two body shots straight off of Brittany's neck and navel, and it was taking all her efforts of focus to attempt to redirect the excitement this had provoked in her towards Puck instead. And right now, it wasn't really working.

She had started off well enough; when she heard Puck's voice in the background among the others, cheering her on, she had slowly detached her tongue from Brittany's navel, breathing heavily, her skin warm and flushed, the bitter taste of alcohol and the salty/sweet taste of Brittany's skin lingering on her tongue and lips as she turned towards him, breaking out into a smile that was partly happy, partly seductive, and only mostly forced as she launched herself against his chest, one arm hooking around his neck as she attached her lips forcefully to his. With her other hand snaking beneath his shirt and working lower, Santana had announced considerably louder than they had to that it was time for them to make a private playdate, knowing even as she spoke that these actions would erase any possible doubts that what she had just done with Brittany might have brought up. She was straight, straight, straight, with the only kinks to speak of being either alcohol-induced and intended to titillate her REAL man, or else being part of her popular repertoire in sex.

They had to think that. Even when so drunk she could barely remember the right order of words in her intended sentence, Santana knew to her core that this was vital.

Puck had given no protests, of course, and for the first couple of minutes Santana had enjoyed his attention, if only vaguely. But the longer she lay back on what was possibly his sister's bed, the more lethargic and uninterested she began to feel, her limbs heavy and slow to react to his rapid advancements. She ignored it at first, attempting to push through and force herself to feel again what emotions had only slightly been there to begin with and were now entirely absent. But as Puck continued to mutter affirmations of his lust, his breath hot against her neck and collarbone, Santana grew irritable, shoving at his hands. When he ignored her, one hand kneading her breast awkwardly enough for her to gasp, slightly pained, she pinched his nipple, using her long, manicured nails to dig in with deliberate intent to hurt.

"Ow! Dammit, San, watch it!" Puck gasped, his hand reflexively jerking back from her, his weight easing off of her slightly, but if she had thought this would be enough to make him fully back off or stop, she had been mistaken. It would have taken a megaphone hitting him upside the head to insure this, and Santana was sorry that hers wasn't anywhere near her so she could try.

As his hands restarted their path over her chest and legs, seemingly determined to leave no part of her untouched, Santana's chest tightened with her growing irritation, and she grabbed his wrists with both hands, again digging her nails into his skin to make him stop.

"You're doing it too hard!"

"That's how you like it, baby," Puck slurred, his lips quirking into a loose, sloppy grin that usually charmed whichever girl he aimed it towards, but Santana was not impressed.

As his mouth descended towards hers again, his lips prying hers open, his tongue slipping into her mouth and stroking aggressively against her upper mouth and tongue, Santana was again reminded of the eels of The Little Mermaid, then of Brittany's partly frightened, partly fascinated expression as she watched them dart in and out among the water. Thinking of Brittany sent a sharp, aching pain through her chest, and Santana turned her face away, pushing out again at his chest.

"Stop kissing me like that! You suck, Puckerman!"

"You bet I do," Puck grinned, not seeming to hear the growing anger in Santana's tone and to understand it to be genuine. When he took hold of her chin, trying to turn her face back towards him, and begin to lower his face to hers again, Santana screamed aloud, bucking her body beneath his and repeatedly hitting his arms with her fists.

"Get off me! You're not doing it right, get off!"

"Huh? San, what's your problem?" Puck asked as he rolled off of her, staring. With the narrowness of the bed there was little room for him to go, so his heavy shoulder, hip, and leg still overlapped against her, seeming to Santana to be unbearably heavy, confining her to the bed without anywhere to escape to.

She took no notice of Puck's startled, somewhat stuporous expression, of the genuine bewilderment in his eyes as he blinked down at her. She was aware only of the growing tightness in her throat, the heat building behind her eyes, and by the time the tears came, she was too caught up in her own sudden misery to care.

"You never do it right! All you want is to touch my boobs and stick it to me, that's ALL, and they're not even mine, I fucking paid for them so you're really just touching money and plastic and not me…all you want is sex, sex, sex, is that all any man cares about? Is that all I'm good for? Is it?! Sex isn't even that fun, I would rather lay down and cuddle sometimes and you don't even care, no man ever cares…why don't men ever just want to cuddle?! Cuddling can be better than sex, don't you even know that, cuddling is way better than sex! How come boys never know that…Brittany knows that, Brittany knows when to have sex and when to just cuddle…how come Brittany knows that and no one else does?"

Later when she tried to piece together exactly what it was she had said, when it all seemed a blur of yelling in her memory, Santana only hoped that the fact that she had been profusely sobbing by then as she spoke had drowned out exactly what she had been saying. Because if it ever got around that she, Santana Lopez, had yelled at PUCK for not cuddling instead of having sex with her, well, there was no way her carefully cultivated reputation would recover from THAT.